


Aleksandr Nevsky Lavra

by Wintervention



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Churches & Cathedrals, Other, Post-Canon, Reunions, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintervention/pseuds/Wintervention
Summary: By some stroke of luck, or twist of fate, or act of God, Yuri just so happens to find himself back in St Petersburg for the first time in far more years than he cares to think about when he receives the call from Yakov. Peacefully, in her sleep, he told him. Some form of cancer or other that she hadn’t deemed them worthy of knowing about. Yuri doesn’t blame her- it’s not as if it’s his business anymore. It hasn’t been his business in a long time.From the Push/Pull zine





	Aleksandr Nevsky Lavra

By some stroke of luck, or twist of fate, or act of God, Yuri just so happens to find himself back in St Petersburg for the first time in far more years than he cares to think about when he receives the call from Yakov. Peacefully, in her sleep, he told him. Some form of cancer or other that she hadn’t deemed them worthy of knowing about. Yuri doesn’t blame her- it’s not as if it’s his business anymore. It hasn’t been his business in a long time.

 

 

It isn’t snowing in St Petersburg when the plane lands, not yet. If Yuri remembers anything of his years spent in the city, it’s that November is far too early in the year- or late, he supposes- for anything more than a sad flurry of sleet that will undoubtedly be a brown puddle on cracked concrete before the hour is up.

There’s a metaphor somewhere, in that being the only thing he has chosen to remember, Yuri thinks.

However, a sharp wind still winds through the streets, biting mercilessly at the tip of his nose and his fingers, leaving them red and stiff in a painful numbness. It stabs at his dry, bloodshot eyes and drives him almost to the point of tears. It is no longer a familiar, almost welcome sensation. It feels just as foreign as he does, standing and trembling on a train station platform with a coat he now realises is far too thin for the Northern winter, reading the Latin script on the timetables before even registering the presence of his native Cyrillic.

He doesn’t know why he is here, with nothing but the flimsy coat on his back, the cracked phone in his pocket, and a carry-on sized bag of clothes that will just about last him the week. He doesn’t seem to know a lot, lately.

Perhaps, if he was more of a poetic man than he is, _(which is not saying much)_ , he would recognise the fact that he is chasing a comfort and warmth he can’t find in Spain or Kazakhstan, and no longer in Japan or Moscow.

But he isn’t, so he doesn’t, and instead forces himself to wallow over nothing on the bustling train platform, while he ignores the pointed looks he is receiving.

He’s grown unused to those. He trains his eyes firmly on the ground, but he can feel the glares like hot breaths down the back of his neck, and they only serve to make him feel even sicker with both anticipation and disgust.

The platform isn’t a covered one, and he can tell that it’s been raining recently by the abstract patterns on the brick floor.

The arrival of the train is a godsend.

 

 -

 

He’s sat alone, at a coffee-stained table for one in the back corner of some insignificant café near the river, nearly filled with tourists stopping for breakfast, still wearing his coat, when he receives the call with the news.

 

-

 

Yakov texts him first- Yuri can’t remember, in all the years of knowing him, Yakov ever having messaged him before. This is the first indication he gets that something, whatever it may be, is out of the ordinary- if there has ever been an ordinary.

_Are you awake? I need to speak with you._

And apparently, this need to speak is of such overwhelming importance that it completely overrides any consideration of the fact that Yuri may be asleep _(he isn’t)_ , depending on which country he currently happens to find himself in (Yakov doesn’t know he’s here- Yuri isn’t sure whether he was planning on telling him or not) as the device springs to life with a vibration that seems just a little bit more urgent than usual, and a name that hasn’t graced the phone screen in a fair few years.

Yuri scoops the phone up with a cautious hand, and holds it up to his ear as he presses the answer button with his thumb.

 

_“Yuri- Lilia passed away last night. I’m sorry to have to tell you like this,”_

His voice is strong and sure. There’s no hint of any tremble or tear or throat tight with emotion. It sounds as though he’s reading from a script- he probably is. Yuri doubts that he’s the first person to receive that spiel this morning. He doubts that Yakov is sorry- he’s hardly the cornerstone of their lives anymore, and he hasn’t spoken to Lilia in years-

He hasn’t spoken to Lilia in years. And now, he can’t. And he’s not sure how to react.

 

Suddenly, his limbs feel heavy. The hand in which he holds the phone drops to the table before him with a heavy thump, and more than one person from the surrounding area turns to look at him- he doesn’t see them, nor does he feel the newly sprung ache in his knuckles from their collision with the wood. His other hand is balled in to a fist, and resting under his chin with his elbow pressed firmly in to the table top. It is the only thing that stops his head from falling. His back slumps. His heels slide to the ground, where just a few seconds ago his feet had rested up on the tips of his toes.

His cheeks are wet again, but he doesn’t notice.

Somehow, he still has the unconscious energy for his right leg to tremble and bounce, colliding every so often with the table leg and causing his tea to swirl dangerously in his cup with every impact. It’ll spill soon, if he doesn’t stop. He _can’t_ stop.

Maybe Yakov is still talking. It doesn’t matter if he is or isn’t, because Yuri can’t hear him anyway- and he wouldn’t reply even if he could. He watches the timer on the screen count up and up, but can’t comprehend the passage of time even with a clear visual in front of him. Eventually, the screen falls dark as Yakov gives up on any attempt at conversation or consolidation.

Yuri needs to see him- he has nowhere else to go now.

 

 -

 

Sometimes, Yuri forgets just how iconic and influential Lilia is, and this is a fact that is made morbidly clear to him when Yakov, with the help of Lilia’s estranged but well-meaning sisters, manages to secure a plot and service in the churchyard of the Alexander Nevsky Lavra for in only three days’ time.

It’s made all the more clear to him when he arrives at the gates of the church in the back of a long, black car, wearing an ill-fitted suit grabbed hastily off the high street the morning prior, to find what he assumes to be a significant portion of the population of St Petersburg gathered around the grounds. The bright white flashes of the journalists’ cameras do little to quell his burgeoning migraine, and the tears of supposed ‘dedicated fans’, be they quiet or otherwise, seem disingenuous at best and downright opportunistic at worst.

Or, at the very least, something to that extent- he’s no Pushkin when it comes to words, and finding the right one to describe the situation seems a momentous and pointless task.

Inside the church, he feels even more like he’s being suffocated under the weight of a grief he knows he should feel, surrounded by men in sombre slim lined suits, and women in dark headscarves. They line the pews, crushed together on the benches in a way that seems far from comfortable. More gather down the sides of the hall, and spill in to the space in the cold vestibule. Yuri doesn’t recognise any of them- maybe he should.

Maybe he should make the effort to look at them- he knows they’re looking at him- but the gilded tiles under his feet, and the shine on the toes of his shoes have never seemed as interesting before. His neck is beginning to hurt from the strain.

The shoes are new, and he’s starting to get blisters.

He sits down, at some point or other. Someone begins to talk. The voices switch from time to time, but Yuri doesn’t listen to what they have to say- he’s heard it before, just one too many times. Two, now, if it can truly be classed _as_ hearing.

All this black looks wrong next to the ethereal golds and blues that the church is adorned in, and even more so next to the sprays and bouquets of flowers with jewels embedded within them that fill the space in the altar far more efficiently than any more mourners could. There are shades of royal purples, sunset oranges, gentle pinks and aureate yellows, interrupted at intervals by thick filigree and meticulously placed crystals to reflect the light of a thousand candles.

He’s seen all of them, at one point or another, gracing the vase on the post table in Lilia’s apartment- the one by the front door- and at the heart of the often overlooked dining table. He can name most of them. It would seem that his impeccable yet criminally unappreciated artistic education has not gone to waste. All this, but at least he can wax poetic about the fucking flowers.

Anything to avoid his gaze straying to what lies at the forefront of the altar.

The incense stings his eyes.

 

 -

 

There are fewer of them outside, and they’re nestled far enough in between stone and trees that the starving journalists at the gates can’t catch them. They’re a stone’s throw away from Tchaikovsky and Petipa. Later, Yuri will realise how fitting this is; now, he’s not entirely sure _where_ he is. He stands at the back of the group, a fair few metres behind the congregation’s outer circle. A barricade of black blocks his vision, but he can still hear the deafening patter of hardened winter soil on rich, dark wood, in and amongst the supportive hum of leaves on leaves in the wind, and the chirps of birds much braver than him to be out voluntarily in this weather.

Yakov peers over at him, beckons him with a slight tip of his neck. His gaze is as hard as the earth, and Yuri can see the dusty brown remains of it still collected in the lines of his palm if he looks hard enough between the cracks in the wall of bodies. He doesn’t make to move. Here, he has an easier time pretending he’s not where he is.

Yakov turns his head back. Yuri knows he isn’t looking at anything in particular, he can’t imagine that the elder man can bear to. His stare is vacant and distant, not unlike Yuri’s own.

Yuri recognises more people now, if only inadvertently- all high cheekbones and commanding brows, with dark hair that is taking just a little too long to turn grey for it to be entirely natural. He hadn’t known about them before. There are no skaters here. He’s heard neither hide nor hair of Georgi, but that’s hardly unusual. But he’s missed the glimpse of Mila’s still-raspberry coloured hair, nestled under a black scarf, that he was expecting- and only _partly_ hoping for.

 

There’s a hand on his shoulder- his twists around in sudden shock to see who is stood behind him.

There’s a man he hasn’t seen in decades.

He looks tired, uncharacteristically so, and more so than Yuri- despite how he feels. At least, that’s what he can assume. With all the mirrors in the house having been covered with haphazardly compiled sheets of fabric, he hasn’t had much of a chance to see himself, nor has he had the motivation to go out of his way to look. But the man’s appearance is almost sickeningly out of the ordinary.

The lines on his forehead are deeper, and far more pronounced than they once were. There are heavy, navy bags under his eyes which drag down his age-textured skin, and present him with a general air of desperately feigned nonchalance. Under a thick coat, his back stoops. His eyes themselves, like so many others here, are bloodshot and unable to focus. Exhausted.

He has a look that could say nothing but, simply, _“Not this too.”_

He leans on a chestnut cane with a ridiculous carved metal handle to support his shaking knees. It would be pathetic if it wasn’t so relatable. His hair hangs limp around his face, grey rather than silver now.

Of course, a younger, more spiteful version of himself would have argued that it was never silver in the first place.

Perhaps the most overwhelming- the lack of a golden glint on his ring finger.

 

 -

 

“Yuri- you look better,” he says, his voice tight and shaking like his poor joints.

“Viktor- you look _older_ ,” Yuri can’t help himself. It’s the first time he’s spoken today; it’s the first time he’s spoken this week.

“ _Don’t we all,_ ” Viktor huffs with a smirk.

 

Someone else is saying something behind him- he doesn’t turn to see what it is. There’s a pregnant, unsure pause between the pair. Half-hearted words hang in the space between them, with a world of consideration about them.

 

Viktor is still taller than him, if only by an inch or two. Yuri checks that the other man isn’t standing on some sort of hill, just to make sure. It’s a sad, sorry state of affairs when all he can worry about is a goddamned height difference, as if it matters at all in the grand scheme of life. It had, once.

 

“Did you know?” Yuri asks, his throat catching.

“I knew…” Viktor hesitates.

“…I knew that she was- _unwell._ She had an appointment at the hospital on the same day I moved back to Piter. She didn’t tell me what it was for, though, and it wasn’t my place to ask. She seemed perfectly well in herself- I didn’t know it was serious,”

“When…”

Viktor knows exactly what he means, and answers before Yuri has the chance to gather his thoughts and finish the strained sentence.

“March- last year, not this one just passed. It’s been a while,” he sighs.

 

The pair turn their attention back to the gathering. No one is speaking now, and the mass has dwindled somewhat. Soil still falls to a solid below, and the sound is almost deafening. Yuri’s heart drops down to his stomach. He turns away again just as quickly as he had glanced over.

The Romantic suppressed deep in his soul may have pinned that feeling to the _‘dread that accompanies unfamiliarity’_ , or _‘turning a new page in the book of life’_ , or simply _‘realising that nothing will ever be the same again,’._ He’s grown far too familiar with all three.

There _is_ a reason the Romantic had been suppressed in the first place- Yuri doesn’t care to remember it.

 

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else but here- and I have a rather fine collection of spirits at home,”

In his mind, Yuri has already accepted the offer, before Viktor even finishes speaking. Loath to stay a second longer, Yuri turns his heel and practically storms away.

Yakov watches the back of him go, but his presence just a few feet away is far in the back of Yuri’s mind by this point.

Yuri doesn’t even know where Viktor lives anymore- the man is no vagabond, but much like Yuri himself, he has not called St Petersburg home in a substantial length of time. However, he does know of a small gate hidden between two evergreen thickets in the very far corner of the yard, where they may leave while sparing the public the view of their weathered faces.

 

-

 

The apartment is warm, almost intrusively so. But there’s no sign of life here. It’s significantly smaller than the one Viktor used to inhabit, but just as grey and sleek and polished, as though it has come straight from the pages of a faux high end, aspirational interior design magazine. It more than likely has. There is no scattering of plates and glasses, scraped and drained of any waste and waiting to be washed. There are no cushions or throws that haven’t been placed with strategic mathematic precision. The shelves are lined with book titles that neither of them have ever even considered reading, and the walls are devoid of any personal art or family photographs.

Viktor slides off his coat with all the natural, god given grace that his aching joints can muster, and hangs it gently over the stand by the door. The damned cane is leant against the umbrella stand that sits under the coat rack. He takes Yuri’s coat with the same gentle yet unsure hands, and hangs that too, in a way that seems practically ceremonial.

The cupboard unit underneath the window in the lounge area is filled with a wide array of half-emptied bottles, both Russian and foreign- far too much for one man to have drank over the space of a year and a half, no matter how high his tolerance for alcohol may have become over the last five or so. Viktor pulls out a bottle with no apparent reasoning or thought behind his choice, along with two delicate crystal glasses- which he then proceeds to slam down on the table, and fill nonchalantly, paying no mind to the liquid spilt over the coffee table. It’s an expensive one too, as far as Yuri is aware.

“Drink,” Viktor spits, sliding the glass over with just a little more force than was necessary- as if Yuri needs any instruction at all. He downs the clear substance with one tip.

Viktor, naturally, chooses instead to sip slowly yet frequently, cradling the glass in his hands.

They don’t speak.

 

 


End file.
